


Sirius Black makes hot, wet rice

by IKEAwhatyoudidthere



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, References to the Beatles, magic mushrooms; tripping on shrooms;
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:27:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22675579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IKEAwhatyoudidthere/pseuds/IKEAwhatyoudidthere
Summary: Sirius Black cooks up more than a risotto in the kitchen.A fluffy piece as a cautionary tale about buying mushrooms from shady characters at the pub.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Hermione Granger
Comments: 29
Kudos: 66
Collections: Love Fest 2020





	Sirius Black makes hot, wet rice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [msmerlin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/msmerlin/gifts).



> This is an unbeta'd and unalpha'd piece of fluff.
> 
> Written as a gift to MsMerlin  
> #LoveFest2020 #LF2020 #TeamEros
> 
> As always, characters from the HP universe belong to JKR.
> 
> You might want to put on the 'Magical Mystery Tour' by the Beatles for a soundtrak, lol

Sirius Black cooks hot, wet rice.

  
“You know, I really didn’t think that you’d be able to pull this off.” Hermione looks impressed with me, and I can’t help feeling just a teeny bit smug. 

It is Valentines day afterall.

“Babe, you left me a list and a recipe. It’s not that hard. I actually feel hurt that you think that I’m so inept.” I’m not really, but I stick my lip out bit and frown and then turn away before she can see me smile.

Predictable. As always.

“Sirius-” her hands are on the back of my arms and she is leaning into my back. I can feel her tits, firm and round through my t shirt. “--I don’t think that you’re inept at all, but…” and I bet she is biting her lip now, wondering how to berate me in a kind way.

“But nothing.” The good thing about risotto is that there is wine, and I fill two glasses of the remaining chardonnay. Turning, I graze her breasts with my arm and with my best sulky face, hand her the glass.I can’t help but look down at her chest. I pretend that I’m looking at her wine glass, but I’m shamelessly checking out her rack. “You think I can’t cook- or read- apparently.”

“Of course I know you can read.” She’s getting a bit testy; I’m getting under her skin. Excellent.

“But not cook?” C’mon Hermione, swallow the bait.

“Well…” she takes a sip of her wine to buy herself some time while she thinks of how to answer. I shoot her a hurt look- not too hurt, I don’t want to overplay my hand here. “...you don’t do it alot- ok at all- and I’ve never seen you make more than toast. And even then you burn it.”

“Burn?” the audacity of the witch. “Burn? No my dear, that is not burnt.”

“Yes, it is. It’s black.” Yes. Fell for it.

“Just like me.” I give her a cheeky wink, “You love things all things Black, don’t you?”she sighs and stares at me.

“Just last night you were moaning how you love the taste of my Black--” she whacks my arm and my wine sloshes up the sides of the glass.

“You know that isn’t what I meant. Ugh! You’re impossible.” She gives me a quick smile and I smile back. I consider whether I should keep teasing her. Yes, I definitely should.

“Well, despite my apparent substandard toast making skills, you have to admit that this smells fucking awesome. Who knew hot, wet rice could smell so good?” and I turn away from her to stir the risotto. She doesn’t know that I can cook, and cook quite well. I just don’t do it... at all, especially not since we started dating.   
Especially when it’s more fun to distract her when she cooks. Especially when she growls at me for distracting her while she cooks. Especially when she burns the food while I’m distracting her while she cooks.

“I’d love to go to Italy one day and eat authentic Italian.” I look at her, wide-eyed. She looks back at me, a small smile hiding behind the rim of her glass. Cheeky wench.

“Well love, if I’m not doing it for you and you think an Italian could… I’d be happy to watch. As long as I can obliviate him after. Or… If we’re talking about a female variety, I can most definitely compare cuisines with you.” It’s tempting, would have been tempting before her, to engage in a little three way love-a-thon, but truthfully, there is no way I am sharing this witch with anyone. Ever. Nevertheless, a man must maintain his philandering image, “I’ve never eaten authentic Italian either.” she snorts and whacks me again.

Careful love. Keep this up and my time and effort here in the kitchen will turn into a steaming, smoking mess of hot, wet, burnt rice.

I taste the rice gingerly, and it actually tastes good. Who would’ve guessed that mushroom risotto could be so tasty?

She’s handing me the bowls and I ladle two good servings into them, putting a stasis charm on the pot to keep it warm.

We go into the lounge room and share the sofa. One end each, feet touching in the middle. She has a cushion on her lap like a little table and I watch as she takes her first taste.

Her eyes close. Savouring the woody and earthy taste of the rice. It is salty from the stock, a hint of freshness from the wine and parsley, and overall, quite delicious.

“I’m glad you managed to find the porcini mushrooms- they really add depth to it.” she says, taking another mouthful. I’m a bit jealous of her spoon right now, and I’d like to show her a thing or two about depth, especially how she’s licking that spoon.

I don’t say anything and eat a few mouthfuls. 

“Where did you end up by finding them, anyways? I’ve haven’t seen them around. I thought you’d just substitute them for a can of soup, or leave them out completely. I have to say Sirius, I’m impressed.” and then she's picking up a sliver of the mushroom and biting into its brown flesh. Her eyes narrow slightly. Shit.

I keep eating. Obviously too engrossed in this deliciousness I’ve created to talk to her at the moment.

Her spoon is scraping the bowl now. Quite clearly, she’s engrossed in the deliciousness as well.

“Well, funny story about that, love.” My mouth is feeling dry and fluffy and I’m really thirsty, so I take a mouthful of the wine to loosen my tongue.

She does the same. 

“Hmm?”

“Well, I actually didn’t find the porcini mushrooms.” She doesn’t know that I forgot them. 

Hermione is looking at her spoon and she looks a bit puzzled.

“But, there are mushrooms in this.” Yes love, there are.

“Well… I… stopped in at the Leaky for a pint after doing the shopping, and I may have been talking to Tom about the delectable delight that I was going to brew for my lady-love, and I may have been bemoaning the fact that I wouldn’t meet your expectations because I couldn’t find you the mushrooms.” Bemoaning is a much more pleasant way of saying whining. 

“Go on.” She’s staring at me, and I feel very nervous all of a sudden. Her hair seems to be moving in billowing waves about her. Can hair breathe?

“And, well, Dung piped up and said he had some mushrooms, and that I could buy them if I wanted them. He said they were fresh and not dried, and were in demand at the moment. So I bought a bag of them.” Merlin. Why do I feel like I’m sitting on a bag of marbles? I squirm on the usually soft cushion for some relief and it feels good, so I keep doing it. 

“Sirius, what are you doing?” She’s looking at me and her voice sounds different. Slow.

“My bum feels funny.” and it does and it sounds slow and funny when I say it so I laugh, and she laughs, and then we’re both crying over both of us laughing at something that shouldn’t be hilarious but is. 

Our bowls fall to the floor and thank Circe they’re empty. Hermione waves them away and I see rainbow stars shoot from her fingertips as her magic moves from her body. Holy fucking shit. My witch is a Goddess. 

“Whoa! Stars. Fingers.” and I’m having trouble wording right now. 

Hermione crawls over to me and is running her fingers through my hair and over the stubble on my chin and I think I am going to die because it feels that. Fucking. Awesome. I groan.

“Your hair is so soft,” she drawls, “It feels like whispers.” and her breath on my face is like the softest breeze and I feel like I could just leave this room and float away on it.

And I want to kiss her to see how she feels. So I do. Her lips are like kissing clouds. Soft and almost indescribably light one minute, and when I kiss her harder to feel them, they feel like juicy peaches. I have never kissed anyone like this in my life and I think that if I died right now I would be more than happy to do so. She kisses me back and when our tongues meet and writhe together I feel absolutely euphoric- like we are orgasiming together with our mouths. Because we are just that. Fucking. Good.

I think we must be truly spiritual beings trapped in these meat sacks, because I feel like we are just made of light.

We kiss for a long time. Days maybe.

And when we break apart to drink (because, why are we so thirsty?), I realise I am crying without sound. She wipes my tears away, and I have trouble breathing. I know now. I know that she is the answer to every riddle on earth and why didn’t I know before that Hermione Granger was the reason for life and the answer to the universe existing.

The Beatles knew all along. All you need is love.

_Beatles._

I jump up and fumble over to the record player. I find the Beatles ‘Magical Mystery Tour’ and put it on. The music weaves inside my body and I find the music has indeed come to take me away. 

I am the Walrus. We are here together. I am sitting on a cornflake.

And then Hermione is behind me grinding to the beat and Lennon’s honey voice. 

“I’m Cryyyyyyyin” we both sing.

“Yellow matter custard  
Dripping from a dead dog's eye  
Crabalocker fishwife, pornographic priestess  
Boy, you've been a naughty girl  
You let your knickers down” 

We sway and sing together like we are speaking our own secret language.

“Goo goo g'joob, goo goo goo g'joob  
Goo goo g'joob, goo goo goo g'joob, goo goo”

And we are speaking our own language. I look at her and watch as she sees the music float around us in colours I can’t describe.

Then she says, in a slow whisper, “I don’t think they were porcini mushrooms.”

I don’t either. 

We are most definately fucking high and tripping our hearts out right now.

And I don’t think she will ask me to cook again.


End file.
